by SJI Holliday
Praise for THE DAMSELFLY
‘The Damselfly is accomplished in every way; deftly plotted and ingenious, it explores the devastating effects of the brutal murder of a promising teenager on her friends and the community around her. Sensitively handled, with beautifully drawn characters that you can genuinely care about, it’s a compulsive read until the final breathtaking page.’
– Elizabeth Haynes, author of Never Alone
‘Multi-layered, fiendishly plotted and peopled by a cast of characters drawn with rare delicacy and skill, The Damselfly is a suitably gripping and original end to SJI Holliday's critically acclaimed Banktoun Trilogy.’
– Eva Dolan, author of Watch Her Disappear
‘An absorbing, intense and utterly riveting read, not only the very definition of a page-turner but one with an ending to die for. The Damselfly grips throughout then stops you dead in your tracks, beautiful writing, beautiful plotting from an entirely twisted genius of an author.’
– LizLovesBooks
‘I simply adore the Banktoun series and The Damselfly was no exception. I read it in a day – this is one you won’t want to put down until its heart-breaking conclusion. SJI Holliday has an exciting career ahead of her.’
– Jenny Blackhurst, author of Before I Let You In
‘The Damselfly is everything we've come to expect from Holliday – unnerving, compelling, and grabs tight from the start. At the end she throws us something unexpected and I don't mind admitting I shed a quiet tear. Loved being back in Banktoun. Loved this book.’
– Amanda Jennings, author of In Her Wake
‘Think you're in for a cosy time of it if you move in to a small town? Read this book and have a re-think. SJI Holliday has masterfully drawn a close-knit community and illustrates just how claustrophobic knowing everyone can be. There's no court quite like the court of public opinion and nowhere is this more keenly felt than when death occurs - minds close and mob mentality rules. Where she excels is in her characterisation. With just a few words, in her trademark tight prose, Holliday brings the people in Banktoun to flawed life. This is a pacy read: a fascinating ride, and one that will keep you glued to the book, right to the very last word.’
– Michael J Malone, author of A Suitable Lie
‘Holliday has written another haunting, fast-paced thriller. The Damselfly gets under the skin of teenagers, families and the Banktoun community, showing that nothing is as it seems.’
– AK Benedict, author of The Beauty of Murder
‘The Damselfly is a fabulous, compelling read. Holliday writes with enviable assurance, creating characters that feel as real as anyone you know, and a blaster of a plot that grips you right from the get-go.’
– Ava Marsh, author of Untouchable
‘A heart-thumping thriller, packed with twists and turns, that left me breathless.’
– Jane Isaac, author of Beneath The Ashes
‘The Damselfly is a forceful, utterly gripping story that builds and builds the suspense until the stunning ending that will leave readers gasping. SJI Holliday’s writing goes from strength to strength. She really is one of the best crime fiction authors around.’
– Random Things Through My Letterbox
‘Intense, unsettling, gripping and dark – another fantastic book by SJI Holliday.’
– Off-the-Shelf Books
‘A murder mystery which leaves you wondering who you should trust. SJI Holliday has made Banktoun a great place for readers to visit – but I really wouldn't like to live there! A five-star page-turner, I loved it.’
– Grab This Book
S.J.I. Holliday grew up in Haddington, East Lothian. She spent many years working in her family’s newsagent and pub before going off to study microbiology and statistics at university. She has worked as a statistician in the pharmaceutical industry for over sixteen years, but it was on a six-month round-the-world trip that she took with her husband ten years ago that she rediscovered her passion for writing. Her first novel, Black Wood, was published in 2015, followed by Willow Walk in 2016. You can find out more at www.sjiholliday.com.
First published 2017
by Black & White Publishing Ltd
29 Ocean Drive, Edinburgh EH6 6JL
www.blackandwhitepublishing.com
This electronic edition first published in 2017
ISBN: 978 1 78530 112 4 in EPub format
ISBN: 978 1 78530 087 5 in paperback format
Copyright © S.J.I. Holliday 2017
The right of S.J.I. Holliday to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Ebook compilation by Iolaire, Newtonmore
To my grandma and grandad for keeping me up to date with the gossip,
and to the people of The Hidden Toun for providing it.
‘In individuals, insanity is rare; but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule.’
Friedrich Nietzsche
Contents
Title Page
Prologue
Monday
1 - Polly
2 - Louise
3 - Polly
4 - Louise
5 - Neil
THREEWISEMONKEYSBLOG
6 - Polly
7 - Louise
8 - Polly
LucasCrispIsAPaedo
9 - Louise
10 - Neil
THREEWISEMONKEYSBLOG
11 - Polly
12 - Louise
13 - Polly
14 - Louise
15 - Neil
THREEWISEMONKEYSBLOG
16 - Polly
LucasCrispIsAPaedo
17 - Louise
18 - Polly
19 - Louise
20 - Neil
THREEWISEMONKEYSBLOG
21 - Polly
22 - Louise
23 - Polly
Tuesday
24 - Louise
LucasCrispIsAPaedo
25 - Neil
26 - Polly
27 - Louise
28 - Polly
THREEWISEMONKEYSBLOG
29 - Louise
30 - Polly
31 - Louise
LucasCrispIsAPaedo
32 - Neil
33 - Louise
Wednesday
34 - Polly
35 - Neil
36 - Polly
37 - Louise
THREEWISEMONKEYSBLOG
38 - Polly
39 - Neil
40 - Polly
41 - Louise
42 - Neil
43 - Louise
44 - Polly
45 - Louise
46 - Polly
47 - Louise
Thursday
48 - Neil
49 - Louise
50 - Polly
Epilogue - Friday, 20 January
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Friday, 13 January
Sometimes, Katie wished that she was dead.
If she was dead, she wouldn’t have to put up with Brooke, that nasty piece of work that she had no choice but to call her sister. If she was dead she wouldn’t have to spend her evenings cooking tea for the ungrateful cow, trying to keep some semblance of calm in the house that was anything but. She’d probably miss Brett, though. Her little brother wasn’t so bad. A bit too quiet, maybe. A bit too ready to follow after Brooke like a
lost sheep. But she couldn’t blame him for that. Brooke was persuasive. Brooke always got exactly what she wanted. Brett would grow up soon enough. He’d work it out. Realise what Brooke was really like. A number-one grade-‘A’ cow.
Most of the time, Katie wished that Brooke was dead.
That’d make everything a lot simpler. No more arguments, no more having to make peace with her for her mother’s sake. Her mother was crap, as mothers went, but she tried. Well, she tried sometimes.
Katie was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, lacing up her ten-eye oxblood Doc Martens. She left two holes undone and wrapped the black laces around the tops twice, tying them in a double bow. She’d tried lacing them up to the top once but they’d been too tight and it had felt like the skin on her ankles was in flames. She loved her DMs. Wore them with everything, wore them all the time – and still the soles were like new. Not like the cheap shite her sister wore. Hopefully Brooke would have bunions by the time she was twenty. Ugly, twisted feet to go with her ugly, twisted personality.
‘Fucksake, cannae believe you’re still wearing they things, you look a right state.’
Katie flipped her hair out of her eyes and looked up, glaring at her sister, wishing she could direct lasers out of her eyes to eliminate the little bitch. ‘Piss off, Brooke,’ she said. Brooke snorted and gave her the finger then flounced out the front door in her fake Louboutin stilettos, leaving it standing wide open. Just as she always did. Yet, funnily enough, it was always Katie who got the bollocking. As far as her mum was concerned, Brooke’s cute little pointy chin reflected buttercups in the dark.
Before she could even take another breath, never mind stand up and walk the two steps she’d need to take to be able to close the door, another voice shot through from the kitchen: ‘Shut that bloody door! What have I told you? You weren’t born in a fucking barn.’
Katie sighed. Her mother should’ve taken her to a barn and left her there. She’d have got on far better in life with a bunch of farm animals than the bunch of bottom-feeders she had the misfortune to live with. She stood up and kicked the door shut. Then shouted back: ‘Mum, please can I have that money? They need to know today for numbers . . .’
There was the sound of a chair being scraped back, then her mother appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was wearing the pink fluffy slippers that Brett had bought her for Christmas, coupled with a wash-grey towelling robe that Katie knew Brooke had nicked from BHS. She accessorised the look with a half-smoked Lambert & Butler, expertly balanced on her bottom lip, and a clump of murky brown hair in desperate need of a comb and at least two litres of conditioner.
Katie stared at her, awaiting her response.
She shook her head. ‘Sorry, doll. I told you. I can’t afford it.’
‘You managed to find the money for Brooke to go to that open day in Stirling.’
‘That’s different. That was for her career.’ She overemphasised the double ‘e’ in the last word and Katie felt like slapping her.
‘Career? It was a day trip to some beauty school to hear about some stupid bloody diploma that she’d be too thick to pass anyway! And I know for a fact that she didn’t even go. Her and two of her brat mates bought cans of cider and sat in the park all day. They nearly never got let back on the bus!’
‘Who told you that?’ Her mother’s face shrivelled up, accentuating the lines that shouldn’t really have been there yet. For a woman in her early thirties, she could easily pass for a rough-looking fifty-year-old in an identity parade. ‘Brooke might not be as clever as you, wee smarty-pants, but at least she knows how to look after herself. Can you not wear something that’s not black or purple for once in your life? Would it really bloody hurt to put on a bit of lip-gloss or something? All that black kohl . . .’ With that, she turned and waltzed back through to the kitchen: conversation over.
Katie stared at herself in the hall mirror. She looked fine. More than fine. She was far better looking than Brooke and she didn’t need to walk about half-dressed and caked in make-up to show it. She twisted the little silver stud in the side of her nose and walked out of the house, slamming the door behind her so hard that the whole house rattled.
She stopped at Fleetham’s to buy a packet of chewing gum and ten Berkeley menthol. The only thing that Mandy Taylor had managed to pass down to her daughter was a craving for cigarettes, probably because she’d smoked twenty a day since she was fourteen and never bothered stopping during any of her pregnancies. Katie told herself that menthol couldn’t be as bad, seeing as they tasted of mint. This was the only thing she deluded herself about. Well, that and hoping to get a place in a uni far, far away; wasn’t going to help her application much, though, if she couldn’t even go on the subsidised school visit. She had a provisional place to study at King’s College in London, but they were expecting to see her before the final decision – not a formal interview as such, but she knew they were checking her commitment. Christ, it was only a poxy bus to London Victoria and an overnight stay in a hostel. A travelcard and some lunch. A hundred and fifty quid wasn’t that much, but giving it to her would mean that Mandy might have to rein in a few of her nights out. Was it really so much to ask? Bitch.
‘Is that everything, hen?’ The woman behind the counter made her jump and she dropped her purse on the floor. Coins rolled all over the shop. She scrabbled about trying to pick them up, while trying to avoid the feet of the boys from the year below her, who were laughing and trying to stand on her fingers.
‘Thanks for helping!’ Katie said, red-faced and batting at her hair that was hanging over her eyes as she pulled herself up from the floor.
The boys kept laughing. ‘Look at the state of that,’ one said, and his friend replied, ‘I wouldnae touch her with yours!’ as they sauntered out of the shop, all shiny trainers and freshly cultivated bum-fluff.
‘Ignore them,’ the woman behind the counter said. ‘Stupid wee laddies.’
Katie bit her lip and fought back tears. Pricks. If only Hayley had been with her. She’d have told the little bastards where to go. Fucking Hayley. She blinked back tears. She hated to admit it, even to herself, but she missed her friend. Her ex-friend. She looked down at the coins in her hand. A new pound coin shone brightly on top of the pile of coppers and fives. She held it out: ‘I’ll have a scratch card too, please. Might as well.’
The woman made a big show of holding her hands over the cards in the dispenser, wiggling her fingertips. She ripped a card off one of the rolls. ‘This is the one, hen,’ she said. ‘Mind and come back for a wee treat for yourself when you collect your winnings!’
Katie smiled and took the card. Stuffed the cigarettes into the deep pocket of her army-green parka. ‘Thanks, Mrs Fleetham.’ A little bell tinkled over the glass door when she pulled it shut behind her.
She was almost at the school gates when she decided she wasn’t going in. Fuck it. She had a study afternoon anyway, and this morning was only one of her elective subjects. Nothing to miss. She walked straight past the gates and into the huge leafy park that took up most of the centre of the town. Apart from the river, which was number one choice, Garlie Park was a favourite hang-out for skivers; but there was an unwritten code that meant no one would clipe on anyone else. If anyone was asked, they’d deny having seen her, and she’d do likewise. She pulled her mobile out of her pocket and texted Neil:
At swings. Bring coffee xx
She sat down on one of the tyre swings and kicked her legs until she got into a nice rhythm, then pulled the scratch card out of her pocket and started to rub it gently with her thumbnail. She did it slowly, neatly revealing one little square after another. These weren’t things she could afford to buy very often, so when she did, she liked to savour them. Even if the most she’d ever won was two quid. Sometimes she and Neil liked to make up grand tales about what they were going to do when they became millionaires. Get away from this place, that was for sure.
She rubbed off the three boxes in the top row: one five-thousand,
followed by two tenners. She felt a little flutter in her stomach. Might she win a tenner this time? She rubbed the next three symbols off: a twenty-five, followed by a quid, and a ‘special symbol’ that would net her the jackpot of fifty grand if she got two more in the bottom row. Now that was never going to happen. Nor would she ever get the illustrious third tenner. She was starting to rub off the last row of three when she spotted a familiar floppy-haired figure running across the grass towards her, carrier bag in hand. She grinned and waved, and put the scratch card back into her jacket.
‘Hey, babe.’ Neil took hold of the ropes at the sides of her and leant forward to kiss her hard on the mouth. He tasted of coffee and chewing gum, smelled of lemon shower gel.
Katie wrapped her arms around him and breathed in the smell of his faded leather jacket; it carried a musty smell of cigarette smoke and incense that she loved. ‘God, I’ve missed you . . .’ Her words were muffled from having her lips pressed up to his chest.
‘Me too,’ he said. Then, cupping her chin, he said, ‘You OK? You look like you’ve been crying. Has Brooke been giving you a hard time? Your ma?’
Katie shook her head. ‘Neither. Just some idiots in the paper shop when I went to buy fags. Little pricks from fifth year. Surprised they’re still hanging about. They should’ve all buggered off by now, most of them are over sixteen.’
‘Never mind them, doll. You’ll be gone soon enough. A few more months and you’ll be away to the big bad city . . . I’ll miss you!’ He gave her a sly look and she slapped him on the arm.
‘You’re coming with me, you idiot.’
With that, he pulled her off the swing and onto the grass, and they lay there, cuddled and content until she threw him off and sat bolt upright. ‘Shit! Nearly forgot to finish this.’ She pulled the scratch card out of her pocket and showed it to him.
